harry and the force




you see young harry stone who was only 13 years old, started being trapped by these

weird paranormal forces beyond his control, well ted bundy, says, i think there is a bit

of hooligan in his itchy feet, and harry hated this, because he was only 13, and he was

too young for tinnea or dermatitis or anything else like that, you see the forces would reach

out into his body, to grab the computer nerd, and said to him, you are scared harry, and we

are trying to **** you ok, harry screamed, LEAVE ME ALONE,  and the forces said, neh oh neh

we will never leave you alone, cause your still a little young dude, harry, harry, wanted to be free

from these terrible forces, but there is no way, known to man, that forces want to leave harry alone,

harry said, leave me alone, i am only young, i am only young, let me go, i am too young to

to be trapped by paranormal forces beyond my control, but the forces said, you are never too young, buddy

we will push the computer nerd away from you, and in the meantime, we will reach in and grab

your little young dude or your hooligan, and harry said, leave me alone, i am not a family person, like that

i am a tad too shy to be a family person to a kidnap, i want to get out, i am too young harry screamed

i want the forces to treat me like a family hooligan, but the forces said, no, i will make you suffer, and harry

was starting to get upset with the forces, but couldn’t control himself, you see he said, let’s put twisted sister

on for a party, and then buy fish and chips, and then harry went away to squeeze himself through a drainpipe, and

one man put a bin lid on both sides and asked someone to hold it, so harry couldn’t get out, but harry can’t escape

and was terribly scared, saying please, take the families, not me, take the families, not me, but the forces said

i prefer to take you, trap your feet, because you are scared, and instead, of making you run away from  us, we have

our ways, to get caught up in your tinnea itchy feet, harry asked, can you left me go, or i will get this fist, and put it

right to your head, and then the forces pushed his feet down into the carpet, and every friend harry had, was forced

by the forces to be harry’s kidnapper, and every time anyone teased harry, the forces will make the teasers kidnappers also,

and harry said, i am a family person, and the forces said, yeah a family person to a tease yeah, don’t be like us harry,

be a little shy boy, allow us, to push your feet down, harry got sick of everyone treating him like a hooligan, but everyone

was having fun using harry as the forces little skate goat and you see all the itchiness, if you look at the X-ray of his foot

ands the paranormal activity, which is forcing harry to be too shy to muck with the families, but the real reason, harry

was saying, i am not like those families who get kidnapped killed or murdered, i hate family people who go to bed early

harry also said, he likes family life, but he likes staying up, while the nerdy family people (little going to bed cool kids)

go to bed, and harry would listen to music watch youtube, perform on youtube, watch TV, and read street machine magazines

but the forces made all his mates like his family better, because they went to bed, so much in fact, they went to bed leaving

harry to be a little young dude staying up all night, playing cool for nerdy families who head off to bed, you see harry loved

to stop up all night, he found that fun, but his father and mother were getting worried about harry, but harry said, he is young

and he runs free, you see every time someone teases him, he would feel kidnapped by the nerdy family people, and

would go home and keep his feet planted on the ground, with the forces saying, harry, you are a family person alright

a family person to a tease, and harry was very upset and yelled out, LEAVE ME THE **** ALONE, his friends said, neh oh neh

you are still a hooligan, harry, but harry got sick of this, in fact he hated, saying just because he stays up all night, doesn’t mean he’s a hooligan

in fact harry is a stay up late little cool dude, and all his mates found harry is cool, and they all said, your like us now, harry

and harry yelled out it’s my life it’s now or never i ain’t going to live forever, i am going to live while i am alive, it’s my life

my heart is like a open highway, i am going to do it my way, it’s my life, and harry then told the forces, don’t you think bon jovi

is really inspiring, man, and the forces said to harry, we are going to keep your feet glued to the floor, like your a hooligan or a nasty

little young dude, and the forces then said, you sit up all night, we go to bed saying don’t be like us, harry, don’t be like us, harry

be a little young dude, buddy, you like us, as they would say to a person who loves to stay up all night, and the forces begin

to bring out a methane filled python and it took a bite out of harry, and harry cried for days, after he woke up with his family

standing on each corner of the bed, and harry noticed the python bites on his fingers but that was to improve the quality of your life

and harry’s sister said, your one of the young dudes harry, and they all went into the kitchen to have breakfast, and the forces

stayed away till the next night, where they can capture harry again, but harry likes staying up all night, playing cool for his nerdy family

HARRY IS BASED ON MYSELF AS A KID, the forces forced me to tie myself up, i have a mental illness all my life, even as a child

i really never thought it was a big deal, don’t follow my path, beat the forces, ok beat the paranormal forces, i was and i stress was one of those crazy people

BUT STAYING UP LATE IS COOL FOR AN ADULT AS WELL, i really don’t want the forces to trap me, anymore, because playing cool for my nerdy family is cool

you can go for a weekend to Paris,
sit by the Eiffel tower,
eat cheese, baquette and dollop it all
with cheap wine...
   but you'll never read
        Victor Hugo in french...
            otherwise?
you'll travel to an obscure part of
Poland...
             and you will not see anything
culturally motivating...
    you will not see Warsaw's Palace
of Culture...
               or you will not see
the castle at Wawel...
   you'll take to a literary tourism...
    luckily...
                          you''ll take to
reading Kraszewski, saying:
       and on the same topic, Sienkiewicz
also wrote, the coming nadir of
   the Polish (crown) and Lithuanian
(duchy) commonwealth...
    the rzeczpospolita...
                         and everything else you might
consider being a tourist about
suddenly disappears...
    or you'll travel to Edinburgh and forget
the touristy-*******...
instead downing a warm brew of amber
and the tri-combo of: 'aggis neeps & tatties
in a pub on the royal mile: spotty ****'s.
        3 years of my life in Edinburgh,
and here i am, in an Essex *******...
                but i feel nothing concerning
this scenario, it's a Spartan clue:
if you come from an even bigger *******,
a ******* like Romford is a bit like:
    Larkin and Hull.
                             i mean... who would take
to visiting Ostrowiec Siwy
                 Św.                         ?
  from a lineage of metalworks,
   the satanic turbines and molten iron...
   which is why you take to literary tourism...
you read - by general consensus -
the unbearable Kraszewski -
      because you've seen the film adaptation of
the same story by Sienkiewicz...
               with fire & sword...
potop (the swedish deluge) -
                        and said: give me the alternative!
it really is a tourism of a different kind,
    and if that be a case for a trilogy:
     king Piast... and Jan Sobieski...
   Vienna: winged hussars and the Turk canon...
           later a brand of *****...
        can this be a case of romance?
i don't know... given the global
isolation tactic
of censoring certain regions, obliterating them
as vaguely ''there''...
                          you'll never really know.
but then again i did read Kraszewski
in order that i didn't have to read
   paweł Jasienica's history book...
      but primarily because i already seen the
Sienkiewicz adaptation,
     concerning the monarchical experiment
of the polish-lithuanian commonwealth...
  from the line of Sweden... the house of Wasa...
    and that famous ship in a museum in
Stockholm, which sank after a voyage of a mile..
            the brothel of kings and queens,
that's what the p-l commonwealth was...
               a mere experiment...
                       no wonder it was carved into
three pieces at the end...
                          if indeed it was as ******
as the english monarchy,
it would have been the totalitarian chapter in
that geographic region...
                     but in reality,
it was nothing more than a playground for
monarchs...                 who spoke no Polish...
         or Lithuanian...
                           and yet they ruled the land...
          and yes: Yan Casimir was a laughing stock...
bethrothed to the widow of his brother:
        władysław IV -
                                      my stance with history?
a persistent itchiness...
                             human history is taken to bed,
a bed festering with bed bugs, gnats and dandruff;
tomorrow will not be any easier...
                      teeth lodged into stone...
             yesterday: a skeleton dance,
  and a xylophone ribcage.

The saucy heated beat begins
The body and blood starts to rise

The sensual vibration moves
Shaking in the lower meat thighs

Vibrant lights turn off their burn beams
Crowded areas start to glow

I have that richness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

Arms are tight with a violent sway
Body smooth moves from side to side

The feet are twins glued together
Move into a straight liquid glide

Dance in a mind all becomes one
Gleaming body begins to flow

I have that quickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

Take a chance and slide to the left
Then move the twitched out body right

Yell the dance passion out so loud
From the chest of full burning might

Everyone becomes a crazy
In a hot crooked little row

I have that twitchiness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

Sparked up veins become a robot
Bring into the fake or the real

All the breakers spin the limbs
Move to what the body can feel

The people dressed in colored lights
Starring in a music life show

I have that thickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

Blast many bombs of the treble
Bringing in a canon for bass

The music drug enters the mind
Keeping at a speedy trance pace

Powerful injected speakers
Start a quick mind vibrating blow

I have that itchiness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

People embody together
The happiness like fire spreads

Millions of all colors dance
Laughing from the harmonic meds

A circular world of music
Close your eyes to move fast or slow

I have that sickness once again
It’s Electric Chronic-Techno

Red,
  Stinging,
      Peeling,
Flaky,
   Dry.
It’s skin reborn.

Hard,
  Unmovable,
      Hot,
   Painful.
A curse from the sky.

Irritating blotches
And the itchiness within
Make me cranky
As if boiling my own skin.

hi dudes

because of my previous two lives as greame thorne and patrick dunbar being brutally murdered and kidnapped

i have been treated like a little yeah mate yeah kid, you see what i was really saying was please dad let me be like your mob

but i was fighting him like a hooligan, you see the previous lives kidnapping turned me into a little shy boy to the world

you see i wanted to be famous, i ended up in the psych ward

i wanted to be like the cool kids, i ended up grabbing all the cool kids

you see i have been having problems ya see, like last year i was good in my play but this year i am having reincarnation hooligan itchiness in my feet

and i am still watching instead of doing, but i am still doing my art, which this picture is, of me reaching out for my proud fathers love

when he likes the discipline from the army and now i feel he stole the methane smoothie off me, to still treat me like a little yeah mate yeah kid

i want to have views on aaron clayton and aaa youtube tv and i want to have people think i am an interesting writer

i like watching the shaytards and bratayley, i know they are families, but they are cool families, and besides which, ivy gimbert, my gran is annie

from bratayley and my old school mate scott mcdonald who came back as my cat lucky is the youngest son on the shaytards

and i enjoy watching it, i am not trying to get down their pants, i just think they are cool families, but because of my last 2 human lives

i feel i will be begging all my life, and at least i can watch these youtube shows to bring back peace

i feel my dad is at peace now, since i saw his next and current life betty campbell was near jimmy barnes

and this picture is when betty wore a denim shirt and a pink ribbon on her hair

you see i shouldn’t have committed that crime back in 1990, because i could be judged what i watch on youtube

and i don’t want that, i am watching it for artistic purposes, and writing as well

and a lot of it could be religious, you see i can’t read minds, i ain’t doing that

i like famous people and with my gran and nan and dad and uncle ray all in their next lives, i feel they are at peace

and canberra residents say my father in his next life is still like them, and i am still a little yeah mate yeah kid

and this picture shows how much pressure i am under trying to reach out, and now, i am losing my cool streak because

i am going to tribunal hearings instead of photo shoots and acting spots, i am on a psychiatric order instead of a spot on ellen’s show

i want to be famous not be a hardened criminal

and the itchiness shows my laziness like a little yeah mate yeah kid

please read the words and examine the picture

athena is taking my hooligan out of me, bit by bit

i pity the man who was unable to
shed a tear on the basis of
being animal, hiding behind reason
and whatever other "tool" came
his way...
                 a man unable to see a wild
in a petting: in the unfathomed
with a nature...
                 with which i reply for
a castrated pedigree: that's ******* cruel!
but no, it was always going
to be the shortlived extract from / by
an account of Judas...
      it would actually speak the words:
more harm done to a castrated male:
than a castrated female...
    call that to claim a male or a female,
the practice still stands:
   the male genitals are more
protruding than a female's -
  and that involves: searching for a loss
rather than owning it...
why does poetry have to become
this claim for idealism,
   this: "ideal love of mine":
waiting "unexplored"?
         what does the term cultural
relativism actually mean -
when we live in the abhorrent times
of moral relativism -
since we know that America is worth
citing, in cultural absolutism:
ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   ZEE VEST IST ZEE BESTE!
   the **** is culturally "relative"
  about that statement?
         you can't spot a ******* quasi-Adolf
sniffing in your backdoor to call
in the hind of relativism?
cultural what?!
           America is known for
cultural absolutism, there's nothing
"relative" about it...
the only relativism is equivalent to
a Mongolian playing
a harmonica grass-reed -
           because: why would you
compete with either expression?
       the hamburger is the perfect sandwich
while a prosciutto ciabatta is
dog meat...
                  well... either one came from
the devil's ****: or neither did...
   when i was in Russia i could
eat crêpe avec caviar...
            but that's apparent so bad i need
to appreciate: a regurgitation of
meat...
               but the oh so benevolent
     media enterprises of personna need to tell
how to: buckle down, shut up,
   and keep it: globalisation veering into
claustrophobia...
            but no... the best only knows
champagne und schwarz kaviar...
   no, not the common people orange: kaviar...
but it knows beef dog meat and
pompous meat-head muscle flexing:
it knows that!
         hey, come by some time we'll
**** each other off wondering whether
there actually exists a cultural "relativism"
and if it's hard for the "common" folk to
integrate an absolutism with their
culture-nation... which already exhists
as counter the academic:
            nation-state...
      America is a culture-nation...
        it's not a nation-state...
              why the hell would i need so
much America without having a chance to:
taste their guacamole?
  but you can nonetheless eat a
                         crêpe avec caviar
in chez Russie...
sure, they play ****** muzak of
classical greats at a fountain ceremony...
but i bet you my *** had i
the parental guidance: i'd be at home
in Siberia like a sushi herring in salty water...
it's just an itchiness that bothers me...
     dog meat over caviar...
western chauvinism of the man-child...
      i can't compete with a 2nd tier of
playground...
                it was fun the first time around:
2nd time around?
    can't be bothered:
  i rather be this alcoholic loser than play
this idiotic game of:
  the toys we managed to get without
having our parents to have to get them...
well i managed to collect a library while
my parents went on holiday to the Maldives...
****, am i looking at a hippopotamus
or an elephant?!
          i don't buy cultural relativism
in the same way that the ancient greeks
didn't buy into a moral relativism:
    after all: there's either good, or evil -
absolutely -
       ha ha... so in culturally "relative"
terms france is also ascribed a global stage
to compete with america?!
                           no it isn't...
america is: culturally absolutist -
  in that there is no nation-state ascribed to it...
for what remains of america is
the currently declining: culture-nation.
      **** it: i still had my crêpe avec caviar
in St. Petersburg...
        so i really have to celebrate
that dog meat's worth of a hamburger?
you have a dog i can borrow?

What is this stress
making my belly churn
my skin’s itchiness,
my pulse race?

Could it be from
the financial separation,
kids, career,
general obligation?

New starter to train,
bookweek costume,
book balancing,
bithday cake?

Oh wait, I see—
I can do these things,
all of these things,
with a smile and a grin.

It’s you, ex man (child) of mine
looking lost
that unravels me
too easily.

Sometimes I have these dreams where you are taken from me. Your parents are usually the ones to tell me, their faces contorted with grief and streaked with tears. I fall to the floor, and on my knees I sit, everytime without fail, I fall to the floor. I'm not sure if I could call the emotion in my chest pain because that's such an understatement to what's happening in my body. Imagine an elephant sitting on your chest, crushing your lungs so you could not breathe. And imagine yellow jackets swarming inside of you. Your heart is their nest and they drift out, provoked, stinging you over and over; leaving thousands of stabs of pain in your chest, all combining to form one kind of poison. It hurts so bad it almost has this itchiness about it. And then imagine someone smashing your head open with a hammer. No form of thought, nothing being processed. Just darkness. Just grief. And then my dreams change to being at your funeral. What does one wear, I wonder? to an occasion which marks the ending of life as they knew it. I would just sit there.. I can never hear anything, it just hurts so bad. I'm constantly crying, not even able to get a grip on reality. Because it couldn't be real could it? My biggest fear coming true. And before I wake up shaking and so hot but so cold at the same time.. My dreams shift to me driving alone in my car, with that dead expression I get sometimes. Always listening to music, always hungry but having no appetite, always thinking about you. And when I wake up from these dreams, I really do think about you. And I pray. Hard. Not even praying.. Just letting God read my thoughts. Because what would happen if I ever lost you? Oh my god.. I couldn't imagine. I would be absolutely nothing. Worse, than my most hellish dreams. So please don't ever leave me in any way shape or form. I couldn't do it. Not even in my dreams.

I feel it as I sit I feel it when I lay ...
The itchines inside me is fighting me today
stomach fightin pain thats always here to gloat ... yet itchiness takes over
a grin and not do bear ............

Carbs are overloaded yet count away we go
sugar fix awaiting to pain my bigger toe
spots are so a wantin on way to sprout my skin
the ******* even get me where!!!
privacy begins

Dia ..Dia ....betes leave me well alone
pick on someone evil
and make a happy home

Dia ..Dia ..Betes ...let me have some fun
maybe just a choccy bar or scrummy apple crum!!
dip a stick to 6.9 after loads a buns
Dia ..Dia ..Betes got ya on the run

chlej (verb): to drink excessively
or chlaj: you do it,
  or even chlać (noun): to do so.

it's an aesthetic variation the acute
scalpel incision on the c: piquant -
the Ukrainians call the Poles: Lachy -
which is not the sound of witchy itchiness -
it's not the sound of cheap:
but something akin to a hark -
potency of how the French literally don't
trill or cartwheel their Ar (argon?)
           and thus say the literally Greek
rho (ρ) - thus the story of: chleje (i am drinking
to excess, but i'm not going to repent
for these antics, **** it: every single
psychopath in us to his gamble).

thus said: some say that diacritical marks
are also punctuation marks
that somehow became dislodged from
the linear function and entered the trigonometric
expression of tangens -
            offshoots into infinity -
or how the western niqab is a pair of sunglasses -
or how every autistic darty eyed celeb
dons them to hide those creepy eyes -
while psychiatrists only ask *two questions:
a. are they biting their nails      and
b. what about eye-contact?

another funny word: ryło -
czerwone (red) and czerń (black)
           czerwone ryło: etymological
ambiguity: it's either gob or cheek
after being pinched by a set of knuckles with
a punch - no Victor Frost wasn't here with
a -40°C Siberian pecker of a smooch -

kot srający na pustyni: variation of a selfie pout
(a cat ******* on a desert) -
funny thing, Darwinism, that sound encoding
didn't evolve to utilise diacritical marks
      as duly (not dully) expressed in Joyce's
end of Ulysses where all punctuation is lost
and left to the dynamo of babel...

there are, truly, more fun moments in poetry
than rhyme - not to mention the anorexic variation
of prose with cutting short the paragraph:
yes, that famous mishandling of paragraph that
poetry truly is... due-lee and dolly -
then the peeps said: oh yeah, that clone sheep -
dolly in science-land, and hence the wonder.

but i do feel sick having watched aeroplanes
and birds, trees, the wind, and cats and all that
dynamic harmonica and never use that
reverse of a freemason handshake (could it be
plural possessive, i.e. ownership?)

****, i'm drinking and then comes the functioning
alcoholic doing the Apache thunder dance
with alchemic cooking up a pumpkin risotto -

o to historia z kantem, co podwujne ma dno,
gdyby napisał ją dante,
to nie tak by szło...

       and here lies power...

        ą (ogonek) my evolutionary step forward into
a tango - tailed-a - or me says me monkey
why Anglo without tailed-a?

    sz = sh = š        cz = ch = č
                    rz = ż = ž                       :
look at them, those humanists, they just as horrible
as scientists, they're doing their *******
electron travels like they might cite Gulliver's -
and they never tell you what's going on,
until someone places a skunk in a room full of them
and once attempting mutiny on the Mayflower,
are soon the horde of Mongolian rats
escalating into a fury of a furry tsunami as an attempt
to conquer the seas in the numbers...

but in all honesty, i feel ill if i spend a day not
using these phonetic encryptions -
i see too much colour, too many shapes,
too many shapes not governed by man's
     geometry - and only in this medium can i
rest my drunken head while "as if talking in my head".

now, i can accept the serious criticism of
philosophy against poetry -
            but when journalists are at it...
those gob-smacker-chatterers are in for a plum hue
under one of their eyes - that ambivalence of
my tongue actually waggling away into concern
  is the point where i use my hands more to
craft the dough of some who might be
victims of a Westminster ******* ring of
   aristocrats (italics sometimes implies sarcasm).

i'll just say what it is, quiet frankly a beautiful
elaboration - for maxims are shake-shocks -
i'd call all proverbs or maxims Blitzkrieg annals -
well, something of that sort, once said:
a flash of genius, but then years of squabbling,
before someone emerges with what the maxim
requires: an elaboration - one of plain, simple
understanding - but of course, after the elaboration,
someone must second the elaborated understanding,
and put the genie back into the lamp,
and oddly enough, write a poem - the twist is,
the secondant must too elaborate on the elaboration,
as way to deviate and start a new subject matter.
this has been the case with what i picked up
a few minutes ago, Kierkegaard's Christian discourses,
the care of lowliness: do not worry about what
you will wear - the pagans seek all these things.
i for one know this to be very true -
once in a while i travel into London for opera and
ballet - i put on my standard outfit for the
occasion - so i basically do not look like a ***:
brown trousers, navy jacket, navy shoes,
light purple shirt - a typical grey area in a crowd -
and already upon stepping into the crowd,
that vast sea, i feel like i just temped into an
ant-mound, a colony of itchiness - in fact i used
to wear clothes in variation - no... well, let's just
say i'd get airs of contempt walking down
the golden-plated streets of civilisation -
where enough chewing gum patches create a horde
of concrete dalmatians -
but that's beside the point, that passage is ingenious
in its simplicity, Kierkegaard is a rarity in
philosophy, he writes like a novelist, there's an
actual narration in his works - he can almost
remind me of Rousseau (rue sow, said) -
i don't the concrete ideas (both are completely different)
i just me stylistically - Kierkegaard as such
is uncomplicated to have a firm footing in systematisation -
like i once said: systematisation is not
so much dishonesty, as a military approach to
language: a strict (limited) competence of language
(vocabulary) - and the incessant Holtwitzer* /
Howitzer style of bombarding a key concept, revising it,
coming at it from a different angle - but refining
certain concepts, instilled with what i already mentioned:
a strict competence of language / systematisation:
limiting the vocabulary; Kierkegaard epitomises the
Heraclitus river - it flows and flows - never minding
the whirlpool of the anti-claustrophobic fathers:
who's works are just that: all of them comfortable fitting
into a suitcase. ah crap, digression over,
mind you, it's not easy finding google whacks - it takes
a decent imagination to misspell a word to get the billions
reduced to 1: apparently there's a website dedicated to
them... well, that's a 2nd in my diary.
anyway (hopefully for the last time) - the comparison
of the bird and the lowly man, the two are unlike each other,
one has it easy, the other has a beginning in which
he sets out to be a lowly man, or to not be of such
disposition... the bird already is, what it is, so
the bird has it easy - the man faces a hardship of
the optical illusion, kindly provided by Vogue et al.:
he composites this with the bird's ontology as
pure animate - singing for its own delight,
the bird's death by impatience should it ponder itself
as being a bird, rather than as being-in-itself -
so there's the bird, pure animate presiding over its
ontology and not allowing hesitation or anything...
where am i getting at?
                                       the javelin throw,
the discuss throw, the baseball throw, gymnastics -
and Noah's ark: and the philosophical concepts
went up to the ark, two by two of their respective pairing:
existence & essence, subjectivity & objectivity,
good & evil... and of course animate & inanimate (objects),
for this is crucial for me... there's no thought
attached to the above stated activities, there is man's
respective animal-like representation - intuition and
gamblers luck remain in the head,
no boxer in a boxing ring can actually be said to be thinking,
too many chemical reactions are taking place,
and these athletes are not exactly chemically minded to
talk about the next more... that's the animate side
of man's ontology - the bird on the wheat shaft singing -
pure and simple... which brings me to consider
the following object that i have in my hand (head,
but never mind, i took it out and it's in my hand now) -
the inanimate nature of man... the buildings around us,
the garden fences... thought was derived from
us having the shadow duality with being animate,
we have instilled in us an inanimate nature,
from which thought is derived from - along with all
that comes with it: telescopes, hammers, autism,
solipsism (self-conscious autism), syringes, l.s.d.;
i set out to find out how we conceived thinking in
the first place - apart from the cliche duality contained
within: good v. evil or beyond that... well, beyond
that there's this... i could find no reason to imply that
man has only one nature in this pair going up to
Noah's ark... this stretches into the common misunderstanding
in the western world in the realm of medicine,
or as i like to call it: the Cartesian dark ages...
whereby a mental health issue is treated on the basis
that we are only animate beings, which, to my understanding
translates as: you have a puppet inside yer 'ed
and one of your strings snapped, mate... that's
what i don't understand... why is it that western medicine
conceived this idea that our nature is only animate,
and that we have to have a respective dynamic in
our mind to comply with the body's animate nature?
this is where the inanimate nature of our inner
life comes in, where thinking is derived from -
otherwise there would be no ****** good reason to
sit under a ***(h)i tree like a plonker for days,
would there? hey! probe all those words in the Asian
languages - dhal! probe! buddha! probe! probe them
all, wake up the h in each and every single word,
then start probing the y and the w in European languages!
boom! out pops a variation of n.e.w.s. of
Jewish mysticism.

I heard the neighbor-lady through the wall, she said,
"... yes, mhm ... you don't have to ask me questions ...."
Getting hot, perspiring from the shirt, I hate
the itchiness and lifted up my shirt, There!
" ... I have to go ... I'll leave the door unlocked ...."
Then heard a shuffle, sheets and door hinges,
then maybe her step down the hallway.
An unlatched! apartment--I've coveted less--
this and all the pomp, pills, and condoms I've stole,
oh I was up already, zipped myself away,
making the way between diaries and ***** plates,
oh already up opening my door--you guessed?

The hallway was empty; I went right
and door 54, was it this? I put my weight
to it, fogged the eyehole with my breath.
Hand to the **** I turned and it opened.
Augh! The managers who've stopped me,
once I was even tackled by a security guard,
was handcuffed, was once called "heartless"--
if only every door opened like this.

I was shirtless still, in fact, my hand strayed
was raised to my breast and I kneaded
the skin and tugged the hair: I entered.
It was dark and I feared the honesty of light.
I had a step to the next and her kitchen
came upon me, I saw the shadows of her home.
I wandered further as if walking an antiverse;
someone else the same template.
I wanted to find where I lived in her home,
where I sat and heard her often call,
where I imagined she curled phone cords
or refused to snore now matter how hard
I pressed my ears to the wall.
This is it? This is her bedroom,
adjunct to mine, a wall to separate--
she sleeps here.
I've got breathlessness and my hand is groping.
Does she have a closet or dresser? I will see.
She calls a boy by name, is he coming?
When is he? Can I hide here, see him?
oh soon. I'll know too soon, too.

I open the door. And she is staring back.
Her hand against the wall, the spot,
where I rock my body awake from
nightmares. To reach through the
plaster and steal the socks. It was a,
a, a great shame to be so looked upon
so, an inanimate gaze like a mirror's
that maybe can't see me, dunno.
I want to move further, can't.
Can't say anything either.

I want to avoid my ticks
I want to beat my voices
I know performing in a choir
Could be ****** hard for me
Because of my voices I have in my head
I am hearing voices that if I joined the choir I will get laughed at
I want to give it a go
But I need to avoid every tick in my brain
I have to avoid my hooligan who plays cool for yeah mate yeah Kids to not take too much affect
I have to avoid listening to my voices and concentrate on the choir
I know it could be hard because my hooligan can cause affect
You see I have to stop the crazy itchiness in my stomach when I think of being in the choir
I know I said I can do it in my next life but I want to give this a go but the medication I am on
I still have these voices in my head
You see I don't want to buy cigarettes for young kids cause that is so wrong and I don't want people to urge someone on to bash me up because I am a person I am not a robot or mechanical being you see I don't want to have itchy brains or itchy feet I don't want people to bully me around because dudes I am a person

Believe me when I say that I never intended for any of this to happen.
What I mean to say is,
back when we first started seeing each other,
and you waited 30 minutes before responding to my texts and
I got nervous speaking to you ,
I couldn’t picture any of this happening.

Perhaps I could have imagined us kissing in some restaurant, or maybe even holding hands in line at the movie theatre, but the rest of it? Well, that I could not have imagined.

I guess at this point it’s embarrassing, right? Not embarrassing like when I think I start work at 6 but I actually start at 5 and I run in an hour late and everyone stares at me.
It doesn’t make me red in the face or anything like that.
It’s just humiliating.
I know the way I sound when I talk about you: silly, young, a character from a Sarah Dessen novel, but mostly like someone I would make fun of. That’s the thing that embarrasses me the most — that this thing has turned me into someone else.
It’s that other person  
that needy, grabby salesman of a person
that you don’t like, right? Is that the thing you can't stand about me?
That neediness?
That itchiness?
The way I look at you, the way I change my plans for you?
How did I become one of those girls who work at a department store and follow you from rack to rack.
“Do you need anything?”
“Can I help you with anything?”
“Is there anything in particular today that you’re looking for?”
If I cared less, would you care more? At first I was going to ask
“would you care at all,”
but that’s not right, is it? You care about me, you do.
You value me.
Probably. I mean, if someone asked you if you value me, you would say yes.
You just don’t actively value me. It seems like that wouldn’t make a difference, but it makes a huge difference.

I’ve manicured my hands and
dyed my hair and
perfumed my skin for you and, the whole while, I’ve told myself that it would make you want me.

I’ve made sure I was the funniest in the room, the wittiest in the conversation, convincing myself that it would make you change your mind.
It should be noted that these are precisely the kind of facts that humiliate me.
It didn’t work.
None of it worked.
Isn’t that funny?
I mean, not ha-ha-funny, but you have to admit
there is something laugh-worthy about it.

I mean, I once spent the whole day getting my hair cut and blown out because you said you thought Id be too brown for red hair so I went and got something that would work.

Because I wanted a change but I needed to accommodate to you.

HA! HA! HA! HA! HA!

I have told you so much, but there are pieces I have learned to keep hidden from you over these few months.
Perhaps, these are the parts I will eventually learn to compartmentalize and keep hidden from myself,
as well.

It’s no question in my mind:
When a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it, it does not make a sound, it did not fall.

I don’t move on well.

I sit in a box labeled “Past Things.”

One of those boxes that you shove in the attic or basement and you keep your childhood dolls and high school awards in it.

I do not know why this is.

Maybe I don’t want to move on.

Do you think that’s it?

I’m sorry; that’s an unfair question, isn’t it?
Well, while I’m at it, can I ask more unfair questions?
Is there anything I can do?
I can be more honest or less harsh or less anxious or more quiet.
Do you like quiet girls? I could be a quiet girl.

Yes, I could certainly be one of those quiet girls.
Just tell me what to do it and I’ll do it.
I’m sorry.
I’m doing it again, aren’t I?
The thing you don’t like about me isn’t my hair color or my laugh that’s a bit too loud or anything like that.

It’s the questions and neediness. It's that isn't it?

so there's this gal, and she's doing a movie review, and she sees all the biblical allegory, imagery, whatever it is she sees: mother earth, big bang, forbidden fruit... i guess the bible really is a visually stunning book... i'd try to do the same justice to the koran, but there's so little to imagine from the skeletal form of the written word... it's basically iblis  (the devil) saying ******* to god, and moving to japan, while saying: lookie 'ere, they're all bowing to each other, might as well asked me politely to respect adam, by giving him a high five, or a handshake.

after a while a beard stops feeling itchy,
and becomes less ***** harsh...
   and after a while you sense something -
and that sensing of "something"
is actually: nostalgia of a razor blade;
god i miss shaving.
               for the men who abhor shaving,
let me tell you: grow a beard, keep it
for a year, you'll naturally gravitate to
an itchiness at the end of your fingers:
****** let me shave, ****** let me shave,
get this ****** off my face!
      weird though, the moment your
****** peacock explosion fades out of
itchiness, your scalp starts itching,
and it's not the itchiness as:
precursor of the light-bulb moment...
it's just itchy... oi! sioux! scalp duties!
     but shaving is the caviar moment on
a man's face,
  it's a delicacy, hence the barber shop and
the antiquated *brzytwa moment (razor);
but there are others,
   a kiss that leaves a lipstick imprint
on the cheek,
   a pumped up plum punch tattoo...
the pincer nibbling of the cold -
        and, mind you, i've tested it -
punch yourself 10 / 20 times repeatedly...
it will still not ache,
unlike being slapped by a woman...
you can punch yourself into a make-up
of a clown, but a single slap on the face
by a woman who "thought" you were cheating
(women are too complicated to
entertain doubt, hence they are too complicated
to think) -
             that's not a disrespect,
   but in the english language is simple -
there are is no gender neutrality outside the realm
of inanimate things...
   unless you're french, or polish,
where there are gender ascriptive forms of
calling a chair a he -
       well, the sun is definitely a she,
and the moon is definitely a he...
   that much i know -
         then again: earth is gender neutral,
a ******* ****** or something...
you can't have this fantasy of an x-men movie
prologue where you mutate / transcend
the rigidity of grammatical rules...
      what you get is what you already have...
a half baked bun,
                     and let me tell you,
semi-raw dough is not exactly the delicacy
of sushi (or a steak tartar)...
                 i drink and i remember...
the slap of hers was worse than a punch by
my own hand... then again: that's the dynamics
of diving into a swimming pool...
            a woman slaps your face? a belly flop.
you punch yourself in the face?
that whole allegory of:
  if a woman in high heels steps on you,
it'll hurt more than if an elephant did, likewise.
god i miss having a shave,
    but then again, last time i went to
the barber - i says to her:
     i forgot how relaxing having a haircut is...
become celibate for a while,
   and your over nerve endings get a caffeine
booster of added sensitivity.

the minute you write on the other side of the napkin... the fold, you get into tattooing a Braille itchiness.

the napkin is a variant of compressed wood...
it's not a piece of paper...
you could wipe you *** with a napkin,
but that's hardly considerate of your ***
being as hard-edged to do so, likewise,
with a piece of paper.

intro done, the loadage...

it's almost bewildering that we employ so
many people to talk,
but not a single person to listen -
   so many people are paid to talk
but no one is paid to listen, so the crowd moves away.
language, as poetry:
in the modern application of it, is already trying
to do the Alcatraz (summed up and staring
Clinging Eastwood Cry Baby, or Baby's got
a Burner, or Hot-Draw! **** me, that's
adventurous!)          diversion tactic (you might
still be reading this mea culpa of mea culpas
that's prescription drugging you into digging
into the classic novella)...
escaping the Alcatraz       /     straitjacket
of conforming to recognisable forms of poetry -
i say fake! to the person who uses metaphor
announcing the use of...
                 i want uninhibited poetry,
i want poetry that bumps into poetic techniques
unconditionally, strangers in queue-ball
antics on the street getting cravat or guillotine
standards for lottery...
           but conscious conformity?
                  get me jack-in-the-box to ola a hello
once more to revive Sherlock Hitchcock...
                   any phobia is atomic,
the world is created from little fears,
            emerging into the big fear: a life not lived...
but then there's an antidote to that:
       if given a miniscule life... don't fear it...
examine it... at least you can then become entertained
by theatricals ascribed to the greater lives...
or have beens.
                     i want uninhibited poetry...
when i say poetry i want opera, not graffiti...
   which is to say: being conscious - premeditating
the use of, e.g. a metaphor...
          it's not good enough, i don't want to read
poetry as recognised as poetry, or poetry
recognising itself as such, i want to see the automaton,
i want to see an art so well engraved in the
provider of such enticement as to paint
as a decorator might paint, even within the framework
of a monochromacy... the parts he misses in
covering a bleak wall of white to be redone...
again, and again...
    but what i expect of poets?
a gamble... only *one attempt... any second or third
attempt i deem incomprehensible in terms of
beginning in the thirst place... ya: thirst.
i want to see thirst: the bulging larynx more ready
to gulp water in a desert than entice saying
something, meaning the latter has no power
over conjuring an oasis, or a fatamorgana.
continued?
           but everyday usage...
applies no similar acknowledgement of orientating
grammar, to be conscious of certain words as being
nouns does suppose an obstruction for the fluidity
of language... there's the everyday fluidity of
language than transcends such emulations
      of acquiring a desirable stoppage forwarding
dogma... yet poetry is bound to a dogma of
applying distinctive orientations,
to suggest that a piece of scribbling is actually
poetry.
does one (kingly pronoun collective,
meaning with entourage) thus say:
to fall in love also equates to celebrations of
Valentine's day,
or to go to war also means: waving a bayonet?
to generally emphasise...
  man was not established with this system
of encouraged "learning" tactics...
           there's no point talking evolution
when man is stagnate, sedimentary,
upkeeper of the status quo...
                   which almost insults the man
that encoded sounds in runes...
             perhaps the rune-encoder didn't
end up encoding while donning spectacles?
the emphasis is on making language more
fluid, and therefore acceptable,
   rather than what's advertised as this
solace-space of sofa, duvans, and free-spirited
******-load of artificial smiles.
oh, mind you, artificial intelligence has
not emotion, a bit like a woman on her
first extra terrestrial date...
                    with honing: having no
emotion means there's no conscience -
meaning crafting an artificial intelligence has
not ontological basin in man -
as man has no ontology to begin with...
  just as god as no ontology to begin with,
since we're already in his deviation from
the beggars' question: to no greater pleasure
has it been to create something without
man's thought in it.
     but not only is traditional poetry respected,
as in stressing an awareness of metaphor
or pun, as a sense of desirable technique
with even more desired identifiers...
      but then language per se, can't see
why someone writing a rubric sentence
need to grammatically categorise and give unto
their use of language a miser dissector...
        for example: the tradition of writing letters,
reduced to a pseudo-postcard form
         of the email...
              the formal begins with: dear ms. judy
the informal begins with: hey yoyo!
                    there's no dear ms. smith
(or the careless mrs. smith -
get on with it, the waltz and ballroom died
   when we groped under too many chandeliers
and gagged for the *******'s reproach
to dating) -
            as with the lateral diversion:
the internet not see as a possible place of
thinking has reduced the possibility of expressing
thought, into a conglomerate
         of seemingly necessary conversationism.
i'm not talking: i always thought that a white
page, whether in shrunk oaken or pixelated
and written upon: was the double-standard
expression of surrender...
formal letter writing was replaced by robots...
all the letters we ever get (via email)
are informal...
       addressed to no one exactly,
beginning with hi, hi, hello...
               give us a ******* handshake
rather than this pristine tofugu...
yep, that, and then ******... but that's how it
avalanches... you write on a napkin on
one of the sides, you turn it over
and then you realise you tattooed something
akin to Braille onto it.

suddenly filled with confidence
I forget the turmoil of that past hour
I rage with a pulsing desire for activity
and jump and finish quickly my tasks

suddenly filled with an itchiness
I want to accomplish like an emperor fresh to his throne
I lust for a chance to prove my worth
and I look for all the possibilities of this world, now mine.

It happened for a reason,
Nothing make sense,
My heart is broken,
Torn apart from my yesterday's
Weeping all it's tears filling up the wells of the oceans
It happened for a reason
My eyes are weary for not seeing you,
My veins get weak whereas you not near
I get itchiness in my heart without your caresses
It happened for a reason
I felt in love with your smiles
Your eyes, Your heart, Your essence, Your skin, Your lips Your touches,
You've risen me from my tomb,
For i was dead living,
Without dreams, hopes and wonders,
You filled me with life and affection,
It happened for a reason.

I see you every time
I close my eyes
And I can’t seem to
Get you outta my mind.

The constant flow of tears
Down my cheeks and the
Tears forming in my eyes
Year after year reminds me

Of all the pain you’ve
Brought me
And all the pain
I’ve brought to myself

Trying to deal with
Your ******* but
No matter how hard I try
You’re stuck in my mind

Like duct tape and
Every time I try to peel
You off smoothly
You cut deeper until

I bleed more like
A child picking at
His scab over
And over again

Even though his mom tells
Him to stop every time but
He keeps doing it because
It annoys the hell outta him

And picking at the scab
Makes the itchiness go away
For only a second and then
The itchiness, the urge comes back

And you can’t help but
Scratch it again until
It bleeds again and until
You need to scratch it again.

You are my heart’s scab that
Annoys the hell outta me and
I can’t help but scratch it and
Pick at it until my heart bleeds

Itchiness burning pain swelling or bleeding in this morning so we wool and that is why this to be with you and that is why I  went home and to give it to my brother Tay to......

My eyes are dry
And also
They are feeling
Itchy
I Need to put
Some eye drops
To stop the itchiness
In my eyes
Now my eyes
Are fine again
And not itchy anymore

From the hexagon, everything is dimensioned on the peaks that can be seen in the starry nights from the curved kilometers of Bethlehem. Everything goes on top of the Desert Mountains and valleys, above the vagueness of climatic heights and landslides of an entire believing community and its followers. In twelve camels they advance, of which the first six are exclusive to the Birthright, and then the seventh Giga camel is from King David of Bethlehem.

The beams are part of the architectural support of the physical-ethereal God and his ethereal-physical word, supposedly of advent and in grazing of the strengths and anomalies of secrets of a new Aramaic message advanced with the vigor of insects and birds that were grouped in the journey that goes back and forth. The Beams are stars of heaven sustained by the Cherubim and the Archangels, through the paths of conversion and the support of the Christian time; haughty and implacable hegemony for the propaedeutics of phylogeny, but more so, in the very chemistry of creation carrying its winged Lepidoptera tetra, the pheromones and obfuscations of a nascent and elemental child in his own evangelical philosophy from a dimensionality between swords and The gloom of a Kafersesuh shouted Manger, before the compendiums of two pyramidal landmarks of the inflection of his word in the animals created in the world and animalia, personalizing muleteers carriers of pollinations and all the generational language that is so concealed far, as are the turns in the musks and their legitimacies of the Baptistery of the Shepherds in Ein Karem, parabolizing the nomenclature and polygonia of a child made man, already being one!, but representing himself as a lifeless man in the fullness of a child of an advantageous canon.

The Kabbalistic engineering of the one-dimensionality of length and breadth adds slack to the rejoicing hours of Joshua's time in the manger, giving the auxiliary dimension perpendicular to the deck of the Kafersesuh, which appeared to be in a two-horse cart, ready to be transported. towards a predominant horizontal, making tension with the itchiness of the visual in perspective of pulled establishment and compression effort of the infant in the corral, observed the results of the cops, which varied the volume of their appreciations when moving away as animal feed, towards the same nourishing for men, characterizing bedroom body volumization and reducing their body stretching them by means of their eyes. Before the company of the shepherds, Mariah and Joseph, they supported him towards the superlative of the bending moments close to him, twisting and changing their squeezing pressure on the cords that forged his path towards the cornices and trusses of the upper celestial vault, where he was the shed of doubts next to the cherubs. Giving mechanics to the prism that arched the beams in the horizontal lines, taking them towards the amplitude of other lines, which remained solid before the variation, suspecting to mutate to one of sudden two-dimensionality. The sections of the timber framing looked fatigued before the primary classification, which demonstrated the attitude of the little Messiah by bringing out its beams and rolling in other pillars, postponing the tangential vectors, contributing bits of rhomboid specialties, which blurred the field amplitude cylinders vision of all who remained in his nativity. Making straight glances so as not to be distracted and adore him with a wide and rectilinear heart, which in its transversality made them visualize for all in the one-dimensional crossed wood, which in its geometry schematizes letters and numbers of kabbalah, which differ in the dissimilar resistance of their ambivalence Christic, as anticipation of martyrdom on the tree of Golgotha. This foreshadowed his abilities to read them in the Torah and Zohar, gathering everything into one whole of those vivid tormenting lapses that he felt in advance, as reversible entropy, giving back his life to prepare them for the day of his abolished martyrdom.

In a jiffy for a moment ..., the bending of the One-Dimensional Beam separated from the inertia in bending voids, specifying the exact spatiality of the beams selected one with the other millimetrically, making the vertical ones, of which carols were still chanting penetrating into the corners of the ponderous ears of the donkeys, like braces of Hebraic trusses in the last breath that was written with symbols of their Aramaic gaze and capricious matron hood, a comparison of Queen Apollonian reflected in Mariah, who appeared era and credibly identified in her typology, gifted in the clothing of the second century BC, having to be associated in the divinity of Aphrodite, for the usual lineage of Vernarth, pigeonholing him in a Hellenistic aspect, pre-existing in patronage characteristics as a representative figure of male and female of Ptolemaic Egypt, as a great icon of religiosity coexisting as a priestess of the female order in Greek rituals together or Him.  Making inseparable the preeminence of mother and child, as a unilateral gender, and as a substantial element for the social and political order that reigned in the ancient era. Lying here the unilateral gender is indispensable for the social and political order, which is substantiated at the dawn of the empires of the time, and the patriarchal society. Symbolically Joshua in this cogitabundant providence, adds the feminine value in the society in the Kafersesuh tent of the Judah manger, dispensing mainly to women, taking her ties of demigod heroine in the powers of benevolence and of matriarchal fertile posterity, as the Eden of the Living Language ”.

A great Zohar light, gathered all towards a whole in those errors that Joshua felt in advance, as reversible entropy, giving back his wise existence to prepare them for the day of his sacrifice. Pre Existing in catharsis and substance of divinity connected with the phylogenetic species, classifying up to an Aramaic pontificate of pheromones settled in the lithospheric site of Gethsemane, in a biological sense and in close coincidence in the lapse wading, or in the phenomenological simultaneity of Eukaryote and from Glaucophyta to late Animalia, giving parental relationship in the characters of the vibrational timbre of the Beams and the atavistic pedestal, readapting in the evolutionary elliptical of winged tetra species.  Allowing changing ancestral linguistic accoutrements in processes of redesigning the divine genetic historical tree and increasing anomalies in the human and non-human anthropomorphic earthly culture, in a reviving profanity of fruitive frequency amplitudes, for those who resort to it, monopolizing synchronicity in the diachronic of their specimens. The lights of Joshua's gazes are the Light of Life and Christian Time, in the entity of Joshua born and lifeless from the nature of Child-Man, but of mortal design in the same compulsion to see him in luminescence in a life of the Kafersesuh manger and only of ethereal unity. Being in exemption from Ego with his structure of a living child and a dead man, he rushes rebellious and ostentatious in the architecture of the One-dimensional Beams, giving up the glimpse of his aforementioned progenitor "Eye versus Eye", seeing himself like this ..., son hovering in the arteries of a Universal-Duoversal life, from a single dimension of cyclical unidimensional length, encompassing conjectures and biological, the symbolic-allegorical conception of extreme co-divinity, as the exclusive precept of the delicate infinity of the Being of a Messiah, with paraphrases or glosses of exegetical affinity Aramaic, tracing from a linguistic period. Here are the conditionalities of the Olive Berna transfigured into everlasting orality and refractory syllable, to incubate eternal rabbinic gifts of perpetual reluctance, beyond the reach of the ego-annihilating will and of ultra-affections of inert apathy and miraculous phenomena, understanding that the language is born and dies being reborn empathic ..., idem as a neighbor of well revived and also, in the same way, emitting himself alive and reborn in his anarchy, for the subsequent splendor and theological gibberish, with thunderous loans and phantasmagoric elixir, except for limited magnets on the Lemurs, with double codes of duplicity and bene-malignant spectra, adducing words in which to reside for languages to destroy and vice versa, insecure states of chrysalis in those Olives Berna fruits, as gastro-larvae of great living genus and their seasons in "Beams turned into tongues of magnetic iron"

and who, would
               even want to own
such a creature,
let alone
                              bait it?
              chances
with a grizzly?
      second to none?
good...
    too much
of a sadist
to allow with
these mantis
cushionings
that only arabs
can seem to
                   buy.
why do people laugh
when i seriously
tell them:
i want to wrestle
a rottweiler?!
  the ****'s wrong
with
authentically wanting
to wrestle a rottweiler?!
can pet a moth...
why can't i wrestle
          a rottweiler?!
death is but
a triviality
when it comes
to the people
with a continued
extension of life!
it's like...
  well... we need shrapnel!
ugh...
      itchiness!
    secondary though:
getting mawled by
a bear-mum
would be so much more
pleasurable
than being
ingested
by an infertile cancerous
growth...
   sorry...
        pain is a piquant
sense of taste...
like eating sushi,
or getting kicked
in the *****...
         the hot-air
balloon fried ****
   in latex versions of
cotton?
       the part where
i ******* or call
             pennywise?!
if ever a bestseller had
a name attached to it
akin to: wendy cunningham...
    or:
        obliterated hem...
****:
i'd settle for sober moscow...
but...
            it's circus freaks
and the one who still
has 50cl of ***** on him...
trying to play bargain...
with everything
that's actually bogus.

well... i can tell you which knuckle
is the weakest
from waking up to a previous
night's worth of drinking:

   if the violence will not come
to me, i'll provide the violence...
scams...
see... that's like stealing
but... i'd at least appreciate
a precursor threat
at the end of a knife...

                   one word: sad'oh...
   i'm far from performing nihilism...
me?
   more a fatalist...
        as long as the **** buckles
i'll keep frowning or be
in tune to keeping
smiles in emoticons...

the weakest knuckle?
ring finger...
left hand: cigarette burns...
right hand: a slight plum shade...
       same knuckle...

but my cat likes me...
  snugs itself into the bed
curling to an "inside" with
its spine-extension of a tail...
and...
******, i asked...
   i can't seem to be ever
rid of my shadow...

for the concerns of
a freedom to speak...
           i forgot what i was
going to say to begin with...
tenor trauma
   of an over inflated
       phobia of speaking
in public?
  
   i have succumbed
to a pact that says:
your hands will feel irritable...
itchiness...
    constant puppeteering...
shame...
your tongue though?
shy slug...
       immovable Fuji...

like always:
i don't entertain much of
the freedom associated
with speech...
sticking to the proverb:

cicha woda brzegi rwie
(colon and italics...
yes, but only when
the words in italics
are in a foreign tongue...
overwhise - sure... no)

  silent water eats
at the banks...
    of the river

(however unnecessary that
was to add... of the river)...
i guess no ***** loose
or not the basic standard
of IQ to match-up
to the front-line players...

        all the front-players
are playing for are scraps
to begin with...
                     voice to mic.
and face on screen...
                    sure, sure...
              the whole kulturkrieg...
    
i have the minimum
of a blank to fill...
            dream big... end up small...
whatever fame is...
and the current globalist
"agenda"...
                  eh...
                           sounds pretty
much as silence just outside of
Beijing...
                     and all that will
forever remain: literature
for tourists, sun-soakers,
frying both brains and *****
on the beach...
          attempting to
shove in some ping-pong
excrutiations of passing
time...

                        i'd rather choke
a ******* macaque to death,
and revise a reaction
of seeing the face of death,
or the face of the hindu
recycling process
of reincarnation, or... whatever.

Love is strange but life is much stranger.
We let go of someone we because it's what society said.
Life is  strange good and bad exist.
So we always need to choose and there is always a choice.
And it gets stranger when we regret what we chose even
though it is right.

Maybe love is strange like when every time we think if aliens are real or why our sole is the only part we can tickle that can cause itchiness and laughter.